


A Thousand Million Miles From Home

by Jeevey



Series: Love in the Time of Corona [6]
Category: Oasis (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 08:48:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25347955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeevey/pseuds/Jeevey
Summary: Noel's at home in Hampshire, but he isn't.
Relationships: Liam Gallagher/Noel Gallagher
Series: Love in the Time of Corona [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747696
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	A Thousand Million Miles From Home

Most days Noel spent completely idle. He’d done it that way since he was twenty years old; months of total inactivity followed by many more months of brutal concentration on work. At first he'd felt guilty when he’d come home from tour and found his mam and girlfriend trundling off to work every day while he stayed at home in his underwear. Eventually he realized that all touring musicians do it. The price for being able to immerse yourself in creative work without a break for months or years, was the need to unstring completely when it was done. 

You never knew when you might get restrung again, was the scary part. At the end of a tour Noel felt squeezed bone dry, as if he’d never write another song. Every time he was frightened he never would, watching the sun rise and set one day after another. Each time so far he had.

He’d finished touring in the late autumn. Three EPs released in a year, promoting his first book, and eighteen months of touring almost nonstop--Noel was fucking knackered by Christmas. They’d spent the holidays here, in Hampshire, and by the time Sara’s family went home he felt ready to lock himself in the coal cellar. So he didn’t feel guilty as he rattled around the house through January and February. He wasn’t freeloading. He’d fucking paid for it: the country manor, the massive garden, the neighborless view from the hill, the beautiful wife inside, and most of all, his freedom. He’d earned it. 

He did wonder if he was setting a poor example for his boys, though. When Noel was a child it was easy to tell when a man was working and when he wasn’t. He came home covered in concrete dust and you knew he’d been doing what a man ought to do. That he was doing right by you, at least in this one little thing. 

Noel’s own work was less visible. He knew that the songs grew in the quiet times, but he couldn’t think how to show that to his sons. He didn’t even know if they really understood that the songs were his real work, not the gigs. Lots of people didn’t get that. His boys were surrounded by people who worked in the ordinary way, especially now that Noel had a proper domestic staff for the first time. They didn’t ask, but he saw their eyes go between one and the other like exhibits at a zoo, and wondered if they didn’t think he was the laziest fellow in the world.

One day he found Sonny in the kitchen with Lupe, as he often did. Lupe did breakfast for the boys, kept the kitchen clean and stocked, helped Sara when they entertained, and cooked for Noel and the boys when Sara was gone. She lived in a little gatehouse just out of sight from the big house, and as far as Noel was concerned she was worth her weight in gold.

She’d forgot Sonny’s apron today though, or perhaps he’d dived in before she could get it on him, because his front was smeared with dough and egg when Noel walked in. 

“Dad! Lemon tarts!!” he shouted. Lupe snorted and turned her face to her mixing bowl.

“Lemon tarts,” Noel agreed cautiously. Obviously she’d let him help with the whole thing; there were dirty spoons all over the worktop and eggshells crushed to smithereens in a pool of yuck, and about half of the little tart shells looked like they’d been done by a troll. “Did you make those?”

“Yeah! They’re the best!”

“Have you had one yet?” Noel asked.

“No.” Sonny looked at Lupe for reassurance. “You can’t eat ‘em right away. You have to let it cool. No picking at ‘em either.”

“So, for tea tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“And dinner tomorrow.”

Sonny grinned.

“And maybe for your breakfast, too?” Noel asked.

A sneaky look came over Sonny’s face. “Nnoo,” he said. 

“First things first, Sonny,” Lupe interrupted. “We need to blind bake the shells and fill them before eating. Get your foil squares.” Sonny darted to the pantry. While he was gone, she patted his troll-shells into a smoother but still childish shape. Noel went to the liquor closet and got a bottle of Spanish red, vaguely hoping that Sonny’s thrashing in the pantry wasn’t putting marks in the walls. He uncorked his wine companionably beside Lupe as she began to wipe up the mess.

“Is he bothering you?” he asked.

Lupe waved a floury hand. “He reminds me of my own boys at that age, always ready to help. You know. Boys. Always wanting something useful to do.” Noel looked at her. He was pretty sure he’d never done anything in his life just to be useful. But she knew more about it than he did, he reckoned. She was ten or fifteen years older and probably had a million kids and grandkids back in Mexico, or wherever she was from.

“Send him off if he gets to be a fuss. I’m in the west drawing room.” Noel gathered his glass and bottle and left them crackling around with aluminum foil and, for reasons he didn’t guess at, a lot of dried peas.

An hour later he was sprawled on a gold brocade sofa in the westering sun with an empty bottle on the side table and his guitar across his belly. He liked this room, with its sky-high windows and bare oak floors. The acoustics were incredible, especially after he’d discovered its potential and had most of Sara’s furniture removed. There was another room, facing south, which she could have to fit up as a living room. This was his own personal Slane Castle. 

He tried the phrase he was working on again, humming the melody out loud this time. God, he loved the sound of his voice in this room. He ought to make a record here, just to capture the delicate sound of it.

His phone pinged, and he shifted to dig it out of his rear pocket. Matt. Noel grinned to himself. He’d known Matt Morgan for years, but spent a lot more time with him recently. Most of Noel’s friends were older than him. They were serious musicians, usually more important or talented than he was, and Noel always felt like he was trying to catch up to them. They worked hard together, talked hard, partied hard. Matt didn’t have that driven feeling. Being friends with him was like being a kid again, having a proper playmate. He slid the message open.

“Have you seen this??” it said, under a link to a news article. Noel sighed. Matt worked in broadcasting, and he thought Noel ought to give a fuck about things. This one was about a fucking Asian disease. Some Chinese virus had moved to Italy like it came on a student visa, and a couple of geezers had died. Noel squinted at it, trying to guess why Matt thought Noel might care.

He remembered. Liam was in Italy, or had been a week ago. Noel looked at the article more closely. Apparently this Chinese virus, named after a Mexican beer for reasons he couldn’t guess, killed loads of people. Mostly old people. Good job they weren’t old then, he reckoned. or in Italy. Liam wasn’t in Italy anymore, Noel knew. He was in Paris tonight. Noel thought about this. He hadn’t spoken to his brother in years but he knew his whereabouts as well as he did his wallet. He didn’t even need the bragging tweets and texts about Liam’s tour, or the growing list of missed calls in his phone to know. He just did.

He opened his phone to look at the most recent one, from just a few days ago. He scowled at it. Typical scally punctuation from Liam, the boy who refused to do better.

_would it kill you to fucking answer one time? Fucking once noel coz brothers should miss each other your a liar if you say you dont_

Noel put the phone away. He’d lost his place in the song. Fuck it. He stretched out and just listened to the sound of his strings, ringing like a harp on the buttery walls. He was thinking of going for another bottle of wine when Sonny came in to find him. Even with runner carpets in the passages you could hear a kid coming a mile away in this place. Noel leaned back and listened to him come, then hastily set down the guitar and steeled himself as Sonny came flying in. 

“Dad!” Sonny shouted, and flung himself onto Noel’s stomach. “Dad! Where’s Mum?”

“Gone to town, mate. She won’t be back ‘til late.”

Sonny’s face fell. “Me and Lupe made Beef Wellington. Isn’t she going to be home for tea?”

Noel rubbed the disappointed little face. “No, love. But that’s a good thing, innit? In fact, probably Lupe’s done it on purpose, because your mother don’t like me to eat that heavy beefy stuff, does she.”

Sonny’s expression lit back up. “You mean like a special treat?”

“Yeah.”

Sonny wriggled to keep from sliding off. “But why does Lupe make it for only you?” he asked.

Noel hoisted Sonny up more firmly on his stomach. “Because Lupe is a gem, and she loves me,” he explained, “and she knows what a man likes to eat.”

Sonny grinned. “How come Lupe loves you?”

“Because I pay her loads of money, kid.”

Sonny’s face clouded. He looked a lot like Sara, and not like Noel at all. Only rarely could Noel catch himself in a fleeting, impish expression, usually just before Sonny did something naughty. His little brows drew together. “Mum loves you,” he said, as though unraveling a puzzle.

“Of course she does.”

“So why doesn’t she give you Beef Wellington?”

“Because she thinks beef will make me die of heart disease, and she wants me to live for a long, long time,” Noel explained.

“So you can write her lots of pretty songs?”

“So I can make her loads of money.” 

Sonny blinked as though he’d been stung. He didn’t say a thing. Noel was immediately angry with himself. That was fucking clumsy. He should do better. He shouldn’t bother children with adult fucking bullshit.

“D’ you think there’s roasted potatoes with tea?” he asked. Sonny nodded, allowing himself to be distracted. “And d’ you think she’ll give us whipped cream on the tarts if we eat everything on our plate?”

Sonny’s face creased in the impish smile that was Noel’s exactly. “Yeah, I think she will,” he said confidingly.

“Well, I think we’d better go do our duty by this tea,” Noel said, beginning to sit up. 

“Okay!” Sonny cried. “Come on, Lupe says it’s ready at six!!” He was on his feet while Noel was still slipping his elbow on the gold brocade, ready to race back to the kitchen.

“Whoa! I think you need to clean up, mate.” Noel caught him just before he darted off. “You look like you’ve been swimming in pastry, you do. Go wash and change.” Sonny wiped his face with a grimy hand as he pounded off. Noel watched him go, gathered his glass and bottle, and began the long walk back to the kitchen, virus forgot.


End file.
